


A Question of Control

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wants to put down the load for a while, but he just doesn't know how to let go. Sam does his best to show him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Question of Control

When they get back to the motel, Sam shuts the door behind them and then makes a point of locking it. That in and of itself isn’t all that unusual—you never know what sorts of nasty things are going to come poking around after dark—but Dean hasn’t taken more than a couple of steps before he hears the low growl of his brother’s voice from behind him.

“Dean.”

It isn’t a conversational gambit or even a warning—warning implies that Dean can avoid what’s coming. No, this is nothing less than a command: tightly leashed for now but already stripped down to a solid, metallic core.

Dean’s cock is already perking up as he glances over his shoulder, although it’s an even toss whether Sam has been intrigued by his behavior or is just really pissed off. Dean’s been angling carefully for a good, hard fuck all week—nudging Sam in fits and starts, playing the thoughtless tease, flirting with waitresses and witnesses and anyone else he could find with a pulse and a sex drive—but he has been known to miscalculate just how far Sam can be pushed in the past.

Not that Dean doesn’t enjoy mixing a little pain with his pleasure. He just isn’t sure he likes the way it makes him feel afterwards—floating and loose inside, like he’s come unmoored from his body. If there’s a more frightening, out-of-control sensation, then Dean has yet to discover it.

He doesn’t think he can handle that tonight. Especially not when it’s gotten so much more intense lately. When a stray memory makes his breath hitch and his hand jerk hard enough to spill his coffee all over the table, it’s time to put on the brakes.

Dean finishes turning to find his brother leaning against the door and watching him. Sam’s face is almost completely neutral, but his eyes ... his eyes are another story altogether. There’s no good word to describe the emotion roiling around Sam’s gaze—not that Dean knows, anyway. All he knows is that his brother’s irises are brighter than normal—burnished and almost glowing against the dark void of pupil.

There’s something savage and primal looking out at him from Sam’s eyes—something like a force of nature, like low-riding, heavy clouds and thunderclaps. Sam isn’t quite channeling the storm itself, though. It’s more the tension before the storm, those few moments where the light slants in sideways and casts the world in artificial twilight. It's those last few breaths of sanity before the tempest finally surges in and covers the earth with whirling winds and heavy, pelting rain.

That look lashes through Dean’s body and scours his bones—it steals the breath from his lips—and he’s sinking to his knees before he knows he means to move at all. Something flickers through Sam’s gaze as he drops, and before Dean has had a chance to finish settling into position Sam is there, fingers raking roughly across Dean’s scalp. He gets hold of Dean’s hair after only a brief struggle—Dean’s been keeping it longer lately, not because Sam asked for it, but because Dean likes the way it feels when Sam uses his hair as a handhold to direct him—and twists his face up and to the side. If Dean strains his eyes to the left, he can make out his brother’s face, which is too empty to tell Dean whether the violence building in Sam is going to tip in the direction he’s hoping.

“Is this what you want?” Sam asks. His fingers are trembling where they’re gripping Dean’s hair—not nerves, Dean is sure, but anticipation. Sam’s self-control at its finest.

He still isn’t sure exactly what ‘this’ is—whether Sam intends sex or punishment or a little of both—but as the eager throb of his pulse fills his throat, Dean guesses it doesn’t matter. As terrifying as that warm calm that takes him after their rougher sessions is, the answer is yes.

When it comes to Sam, the answer is always yes.

“Please,” he rasps.

“Please what?”

“Please, Sammy,” Dean answers, even though he knows that isn’t what Sam is looking for.

Sam’s hand twitches—a painful, punishing tug—but Dean ignores the rebuke. He’s come to terms with the fact that he’s bent enough to crave this kind of thing, but fucked if he’ll call his kid brother ‘sir’. He has to draw the line somewhere.

Dean wonders for a moment if Sam will push him on it—Sam has been getting more and more demanding about that kind of thing lately, like he thinks all their problems will be solved if he can get Dean to push the word past his lips once. From the tension in Sam’s fingers, he’s considering it, anyway, and while his brother hesitates Dean allows himself to imagine it—pictures what it would be like to offer that title to Sam, or to accept the leather cuff that Sam has offered to him twice now.

But as much as he likes letting his brother manhandle him sometimes, the concept of actually surrendering the way Sam seems to want seems impossible. Even at their most intense, their sessions are nothing but a sham of submission—a mock baring of Dean’s throat while he silently continues to cling to control with white-knuckled determination.

Sam can fuck him, and Sam can whip him, and Sam can draw broken, muted pleas from his throat, but Sam doesn’t get to own him. He doesn’t get to pry Dean’s fingers off the wheel.

“How much do you need?” Sam asks now, and his grip has loosened, fingers stroking through Dean’s hair in an idle, possessive caress.

Dean appreciates the impulse behind the question, but answering would be too close to actively participating and this ... this works better for Dean when Sam tells him what to do.

“What do you want, a manual?” he asks after a couple of seconds, pitching his voice in a deliberately scornful register.

There’s no punishing jerk on his hair. No casual cuff to the back of his head. Instead, Sam crouches behind him, close enough that Dean can feel the warmth from his brother’s body bleeding into his back. Dean has known for years how much of a Yeti Sam is, but it’s moments like this that the knowledge really hits home.

For an endless, agonizing minute, Sam looms over him and doesn’t move. Then, in a deceptively casual voice, he says, “I want you to pick a safeword.”

Dean’s body flushes hot and then cold at the suggestion, just like it always does. His chest gives a strange, nervous flutter that he’s always going to associate with electrocution, thanks to that fucking rawhead.

“Go to hell,” he bites out.

“It’s not negotiable this time, Dean.” Now Sam touches him—feather light and almost delicately, fingertips ghosting over Dean’s jaw and down onto his throat. “I don’t—I don’t know what I’m going to do to you.”

Dean swallows and Sam laughs softly: a sound that trickles down Dean’s spine like ice water.

“No, that’s a lie,” Sam amends. “I know exactly what I’m going to do to you.”

Dean shivers as his brother leans in closer, breath gusting out over his ear and the side of his neck. Sam’s hand closes around his throat, still gentle but promising more. Sam could crush his windpipe if he wanted. He could do it in a heartbeat.

Dean’s heart runs faster and he tips his head back, pushing his throat into Sam’s grip. Sam shifts his grip: thumb sliding up and down Dean’s pulse while his other fingers dig into the soft flesh just below Dean’s jaw.

“You need a safeword,” Sam repeats.

The calm his voice held earlier is gone now, replaced by something hot and slick and sharp, and Dean’s thoughts flicker wildly. He wonders if Sam has a knife on him, if he’ll use it, if Dean will come as hard as he did the last _(also the first and only)_ time Sam gave in to that particular impulse. He wonders how long he’ll float in that loose, open sensation once Sam has finished with him.

“I trust you,” Dean manages, desperate to get this show on the road and hating that Sam is forcing him to say this kind of shit out loud.

“That makes one of us,” Sam says, just as stubborn as always. “Pick a word, Dean, or I’ll end this right now.”

“Go ahead,” Dean bluffs. He hopes his voice sounds more nonchalant and less needy than it does in his own head. “I still have Will’s number.”

The expected jealous outburst doesn’t come. Instead, Sam continues to stroke Dean’s throat while announcing, “You aren’t going anywhere. Either you get over whatever stupid issue you have with the concept of safewords and we spend the rest of the night seeing how loud I can get you to scream, or you can go jerk off on your own in the bathroom.”

“You think you’re gonna be able to stop me from leaving if I want to?”

“I think I’m not going to have to.”

Dean’s stomach twists at the solid confidence in Sam’s voice—like it’s a foregone conclusion that Dean isn’t going to follow through. Like it’s completely inconceivable that he would seriously consider looking for what he needs somewhere else.

Not that Sam is wrong, it just ... it’s frightening to think that maybe Dean has been more transparent about some things than he meant to be.

“Tick tock, Dean,” Sam murmurs. His tongue just curls out to trace along the shell of Dean’s ear, wet and teasing, and fuck, that’s not fair.

“Fine,” he bites out. “Safeword’s ‘no’.”

“Something else,” Sam corrects. He has stopped stroking Dean’s throat and started massaging it, which is making breathing a little difficult. Not to mention what it’s doing to Dean’s cock and stomach.

“What’s wrong with ‘no’?”

“You say that about twenty times whenever we do this,” Sam answers immediately, “And you never mean it.”

“So? You’d know the difference.”

“Maybe I don’t want to have to think that hard,” Sam suggests.

He shifts forward until he’s pressed firmly against Dean’s back, one knee planted on the floor to Dean’s right for balance, and reaches around to cup Dean’s cock through his jeans. Dean bites the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning out loud at the contact. His hands clench into fists.

“Maybe I want to enjoy this without having to second guess everything that comes out of that pretty mouth of yours.”

Sam isn’t saying anything particularly obscene, but something in his voice is making Dean think of all the times Sam forced him to the floor—into positions similar to the one he’s in now—and used his mouth until his jaw ached and his throat had been rubbed raw. His stomach flips, hungry, and he clenches his teeth to keep from moaning as Sam nuzzles at the side of his face.

“Pick something else.”

“No,” Dean bites out, frightened into defensiveness by the depth of his response to his brother's touch. “This is stupid, Sam, I—”

Sam releases him abruptly, starts to stand up—he starts to _leave_ —and Dean panics. He flails out with one hand, catching his brother's shirt, and blurts, “Zeppelin, okay? Zeppelin.”

Sam is silent and still, and for a moment Dean is terrified that he dragged his feet too long. He’s sure Sam is going to shake him off, tell him he’s too late, that the window of opportunity has closed.

Then Sam says, “Let go of me, Dean.”

It isn’t the words so much as how he says them—voice encased in heat and reinforced by jagged bars of steel.

Dean’s hand opens automatically, falling back to his side, and he bows his head as Sam finishes standing behind him. His skin feels flushed everywhere, his breath is coming too fast, and he’s painfully aware of what is about to happen. They’ve done this before, lots of times, but for some reason he’s as nervous as he was nine months ago when he first confessed to his brother that he sort of, maybe, kind of didn’t exactly hate it when Sam got all caveman on him.

“Strip and get on the bed,” Sam orders. “And don’t bother making a show of it. I think you’ve been teasing me enough for the past few days.”

The rebuke stings slightly, but it isn’t untrue. Anyway, Dean is grateful for the command because his hands are trembling, and he’s clumsier than usual getting his shirt off. He can feel Sam watching him get undressed, but is careful not to turn around—doesn’t even lift his eyes from the floor. He strips, dropping his clothes into a pile, and then moves over to get on the bed. For a few moments, he hesitates on hands and knees, uncertain how Sam wants his legs and hoping for some direction. When nothing comes, he takes a guess and lowers himself down, parting his thighs far enough to be accommodating.

There’s the muffled sound of Sam stripping as well, and then of him rifling around in a duffle, and then the unmistakable clink of metal, which is a little alarming, if only because it’s new. Sam has used a knife on him, and a belt, and once or twice he’s just fucked him dry or used those huge hands of his to smack Dean’s ass, but this ... whatever this is, it’s a first. Dean sort of wants to look over and see what’s coming—so that he can maybe prepare himself a little—but he’s too frightened of what he’ll find to try. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tenses and hangs onto the pillow bunched up beneath his chin.

And then jumps as Sam slaps his ass.

“Hands, Dean.”

Dean’s heart leaps in his chest as he obeys, and then lurches right up into his throat as he feels something cool and unyielding click into place around his wrists.

“Woah!” he blurts, trying to rear up. He has no leverage with his hands locked at the small of his back, though, and the most he can manage is a slight flop.

“Easy,” Sam says, rubbing a hand up and down Dean’s thigh. “They’re just handcuffs.”

Just handcuffs. Right.

“No fucking way, dude,” Dean insists. He jerks on his wrists—stupid, considering the fact that his skin is going to give long before the metal—and then twists his head around, trying to get a good look at his brother. “Take ‘em off.”

Sam looks back at him calmly. “No.”

“ _No?_ ” Dean demands. “What the fuck’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

He knows he sounds a little frantic and doesn’t care. Fuck, maybe he shouldn’t have pushed so hard this past week. He can’t handle being restrained like this, unable to get away. Unable to defend himself.

“If you want the cuffs off, you know what to say.”

For a moment, Dean is too panicked to draw anything but a blank from that. Then realization hits and the word hovers on his lips—all it requires is a little bit of breath and he can get his heart back in his chest where it belongs. Except, as terrified as he is, he doesn’t want to give Sam the satisfaction. Gritting his teeth, he continues to struggle silently.

Sam lets out an exasperated huff and gives Dean another light slap—this time on the inner thigh. It stings a bit more, getting hit there, but it’s still less of a punishment and more of a warning.

“Stop it, Dean. That’s an order.”

Fucking hell.

Conflicting impulses tumble around in Dean’s chest at the command—he can’t just agree to being trussed up at Sam’s mercy like this. On the other hand, it’s instinct to obey Sam’s voice during one of their sessions—instinct as well to bluff his way through fear on sheer bravado alone. He doesn’t want to admit out loud how much this is freaking him out, and that means doing what Sam is telling him to.

It takes a couple minutes to manage it, but finally, with one last, reluctant shudder, he sags against the mattress. There are still tremors running through his muscles, but Dean guesses that this is as good as it’s going to get, and anyway they aren’t visible.

Then Sam puts his hands on him—broad palms running up the back of Dean’s thighs and over his ass and higher. Sam is caressing his skin—fingers chasing down the tremors and stroking Dean’s muscles until they let go with a shocking, unexpected quiver of release. It’s a little like pain and a lot like pleasure, and by the time Sam has him relaxed Dean’s face is flushed and he’s panting. His cock is hard and leaking precome onto the bedspread.

“Better?” Sam asks, brushing Dean’s sweat-damp hair.

“No,” Dean rasps.

It isn’t precisely a lie. His groin and cock feel fucking great, but his head is another matter—twisted mass of knots and tangled thoughts that are going nowhere fast. His chest isn’t doing so hot either, come to think of it: pulled tight with tension deep inside where Sam’s hands can’t do anything about it.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam points out as he trails one finger across Dean’s left wrist just below the cuffs. “Not more than you want me to.”

That’s not the fucking point, though, and Sam knows it. Dean can’t take this—he can’t handle being so goddamned helpless.

“Then take the cuffs off,” he tries.

“Not going to happen,” Sam replies with maddening nonchalance. “And I’m telling you to stop asking. You can speak to say your safeword and that’s it.”

“If you think I’m just going to lie here while you—ngh!” The rest of Dean’s complaint cuts off in a choked shout and he kicks his leg, trying to dislodge Sam’s hand from the sensitive bundle of nerves currently sending cramps shooting up and down his thigh. Oh, fuck that _hurts_.

“Three options here, Dean. Either you obey and we move on, or you disobey and you get punished, or you safeword and we stop.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Dean spits.

If Sam keeps pressing on that nerve bundle for much longer, Dean’s going to be limping tomorrow.

“Which is it going to be?” Sam prods. “You have permission to speak in order to answer.”

Like Dean needs Sam’s motherfucking permission for anything. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out at his brother, though. Pain or not, fear or not, he needs this. These sessions with Sam are the closest Dean has managed to come to peace since Dad died.

“I’ll shut up,” he pants, and then hisses as Sam immediately eases up.

Dean’s leg is still twitching—not intentionally, just because the nerves are a little fucked up right now—and Sam takes the time to massage him through that discomfort as well. That’s one thing about his brother that Dean is really thankful for: Sam might know how to make him hurt like hell, but he also knows how to take the pain back again once the punishment is over.

He hasn’t once been vindictive about it, either. No matter how much of a prick Dean has been over the days or weeks leading up to the big moment, once Sam finishes with him, that’s it. No lingering resentments, no snide remarks, no smirking when Dean spends the next couple of days limping around and lying on his stomach.

Eventually, when Dean’s thigh has calmed down again, Sam lifts his hand and says, “I want you to turn over onto your back and spread your legs.”

Relief instantly washes through Dean. Finally, an easy command to obey. The position Sam wants him in is going to put a lot of strain on his shoulders and upper back muscles, but at least it isn’t going to mess with his head anymore.

Dean flops over into position and then freezes as he catches sight of Sam.

Or, more accurately, the black blindfold Sam is holding in his hand.

“No,” he blurts, instantly forgetting his promise to be silent. “Fuck you, Sam, no.”

“That’s one,” Sam says. “You want more, keep talking.”

Dean’s eyes drop from Sam’s to look down at his own cock, which is still, absurdly, standing at attention. It’s maybe even a little harder at the memory of the last time Sam decided to save his punishments up for the end instead of meting them out as they went along—tantalizing remembrance of getting fucked hard enough that he barely felt the belt cracking down, ass already aching and hot from having to handle Sam’s cock with nothing but a little spit and a hasty, one-finger prep. The worst part of that punishment had been feeling Sam’s come leaking down between his thighs as he clung to the wall.

Somehow, from the expression in Sam’s eyes, getting a little sloppy is going to be the least of Dean’s problems if he keeps mouthing off tonight.

Sam stands there for a moment, waiting for him to respond, and then moves forward. Dean manages to keep his mouth shut, but he can’t help tossing his head when Sam reaches for him. He can’t go far with his hands bound and trapped behind him, though, and Sam catches him easily, getting a hand between Dean’s skull and the headboard so that he can’t accidentally give himself a concussion. Before Dean can consider twisting his head to the side and biting his brother’s fingers to get him off, something that feels like silk slides into place over his eyes and everything goes dark.

Dean’s breathing shallows, becoming erratic, and his hands twist helplessly against the cuffs. Fuck, he can’t see. He can’t see and he can’t move and he can’t fucking do this. Sam needs to let him up right now, goddamn it.

Only for some reason, Dean isn’t saying the word he knows will get him released.

A hand lands on his chest, making him flinch before he realizes that it has to be Sam’s—no one else is in the room, Dean’s almost positive of that. Sam _(it is Sam, has to be)_ scratches lightly at Dean’s collarbone before moving his hand lower to toy with Dean’s nipples—pulling, pinching and rubbing until Dean isn’t thinking about how helpless he is anymore. He _can’t_ think about that anymore—doesn’t have enough brain cells left to concentrate on anything but the throbbing ache in his cock. He rolls his hips repeatedly, trying to rut against something and coming up with nothing more substantial than air.

“You need this,” Sam murmurs as Dean’s hips give yet another futile thrust. “We both know you need this, and I’m sorry, but I’m done waiting for you to admit it.”

Dean shakes his head—denying not just Sam’s claim but the very concept of it—but deep inside his chest there’s a twinge of something like recognition. He still isn’t sure what Sam means by “this”—it isn’t the sex, though: he knows that much—or how leaving Dean cuffed and blind is going to give it to him, but he thinks ... he thinks this is why he’s so frightened. Of getting whatever Sam’s talking about, of not getting it, of getting it and not having it be anywhere near enough—or maybe a little of all three.

The safeword Sam made him pick swells in his mouth, but before he can speak Sam is there. Sam’s mouth is pressed against his, claiming, and Sam’s tongue is pushing past Dean’s lips and licking into him. Kissing back is automatic, and Dean feels the panic receding as the kiss gentles into something deep and almost lazy. Sam never kisses him like this when they’re in the middle of a session.

Fuck, Sam never kisses him like this at all.

When Sam finally pulls back, Dean lifts his head slightly, chasing him, and Sam gives his shoulder a gentle push with one hand. His fond, warm chuckle eases some of the pressure in Dean’s chest.

“Remember,” Sam says, resting his hand over Dean’s heart. “Just say the word and I’ll stop.”

Then the hand lifts and Dean feels his brother move away—air currents drifting against his body, scuff of Sam’s feet against the floor. He strains his ears in the artificial darkness, trying to figure out what’s going on, and hears Sam over by the duffels again.

Sam scrounges around inside one of the bags and then pulls something out and comes back over to the bed. There’s a clink of whatever Sam picked up knocking together as he puts it _(them?)_ down on the bed on the far side of Dean’s body and then Sam is crawling over Dean to join whatever toys he's decided to use.

Dean’s head comes around at the familiar snick of a lighter, and a moment later he catches the scent of fire on the air: crisp flare of heat. That scent is followed by the sound of the lighter being closed again, and a tiny vibration from his right as Sam drops it on the bed.

Fuck, he wishes he could see. Wishes he knew what Sam’s up to. Right now, the only thing he can think of is those horror stories of parents putting out cigarettes on their kids, but he can’t smell smoke, and anyway Sam wouldn’t do that to him, would he? Not something so clearly aimed at humiliation.

“S-Sam?” he stutters—knows he isn’t supposed to speak, but just ... fuck, he can’t just lie here like this.

“Two,” Sam counts mercilessly. “Speak without permission again and it isn’t your ass I’ll be hitting.”

Sam has threatened him with that before—Dean’s cock taking the brunt of the punishment instead of his ass—but Dean has never believed he’ll actually follow through. Something about tonight—about the intense, quiet feel to the room, or maybe his hands cuffed behind his back, or the blindfold cutting off his vision—makes him believe it now, though. He swallows the rest of the question, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and biting down.

Time stretches out in an unknowable, endless pulse. Sam kneels beside him, motionless, while Dean shifts his hands around behind his back and tries to get comfortable. His wrists ache where he tried to pull free from the cuffs, but he’s surprised to realize that the metal doesn’t feel quite as restrictive as before. No, that’s not right. They’re just as confining: he just doesn’t seem to mind quite as much.

Something to do with Sam’s steady, unswerving presence and attention.

The spill of liquid across Dean’s left breast comes without warning—ice water, he thinks at first, but before he’s finished gasping and twisting to the side, the heat registers. The liquid dribbles halfway down the side of his chest before clinging to his skin and stiffening.

And just like that, Dean knows what Sam is up to.

“Fucking wax?” he pants. “Seriously? Did you just pour _wax_ on me?” He curses under his breath as another spill hits him—this time lower down on his stomach.

“Three for your cock,” Sam’s disembodied voice announces, and a third dribble of scalding liquid hits Dean—his throat now, and enough is fucking enough.

“Screw you, Sam,” Dean growls, trying to roll over onto his side so that he can sit up. “I’m pulling the plug. Put down the fucking candle and uncuff me.”

Sam’s hand drops on Dean’s shoulder, pushing down and holding him in place. “Say the word and I will.”

Dean presses his lips together as his brother drips more wax in a slow line down his chest and then turns his face away from the direction he knows Sam is in. Fuck Sam, anyway. Fuck Sam and his cuffs and his blindfold and his candles and his smug certainty that he knows everything.

When he sees that Dean isn’t going to try moving again, Sam releases his shoulder to cup his cock. His thumb rubs over the slick head, smearing precome, and Dean can’t quite smother his moan. He can’t do anything about the way his cock jumps excitedly as Sam spills yet another dribble of wax across his right nipple either.

Great. There goes his plausible deniability.

“You’re enjoying this,” Sam says. He doesn’t sound surprised, the bitch. “But for some reason, you can’t help running your mouth—you’re up to four, by the way. Funny thing is, when you let me cut you, you didn’t make a single peep.”

Dean’s gut flips at the reminder of that session—just him and Sam and that huge ass knife of his brother’s and dozens of shallow, careful nicks.

“I thought maybe this was just a punishment thing,” Sam continues. “And hey, that’s pretty fucked up, but I figured that if I could stop you from throwing yourself in the path of every evil son of a bitch between Boston and Frisco, I could let it slide. But you don’t need to be punished for anything, Dean, and I think you know that.”

Dean’s been undressed in front of Sam hundreds of times—has had Sam’s cock inside of him on and off for the last two years—and he’s never felt so naked or exposed. For the first time, he’s thankful for the blindfold. The darkness feels protecting instead of threatening. He can’t see Sam to strike out at him. He doesn’t have Sam’s earnest, knowing expression shooting up his heart rate and making him sweat.

Sam has stopped dribbling wax on him finally, and Dean’s stomach hitches at the new sensation of his brother peeling the hardened bits and pieces from his skin. When he turns his head, the fabric of the blindfold feels moist against his eyelids, and he realizes with a tiny jolt of shame that he’s crying.

“I—” he rasps, and then has to clear his throat before he can continue, “Dad, I—He traded himself for me, Sam.”

“Yeah, he probably did.”

There’s a new note in Sam’s voice: one Dean hasn’t heard during these sessions before, or maybe he just hasn’t been listening. Not pity, although if Dean were free right now he’d be pretending that’s what it was—pretending and shoving Sam off of him and running out the door as fast as his legs could carry him.

But Sam took that option away, and Dean can’t lie to himself like this. He can’t pretend that’s anything but love in Sam’s words. Can’t twist what Sam is saying into anything but compassion.

“But that’s not your fault,” Sam continues. “You didn’t ask him to do that. You know you didn’t.”

Yeah, Dean knows. Maybe he didn’t at first, during those bleak months after, but he knows now. He’s known for a while now.

“So I think maybe there’s another reason you need this, and you know what, Dean? That’s okay.”

“I don’t—Sammy, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Except Dean thinks maybe he knows exactly what Sam’s talking about. His hands flex uselessly against the cuffs as his heart kicks in his chest.

“I’m going to start again,” Sam announces, completely ignoring Dean’s half-hearted protest as he peels the last of the wax from Dean’s nipple. “And you’re not going to talk. You’re not going to think about Dad, or the demon, or anything else. You’re just going to relax and enjoy it.”

Dean shakes his head wordlessly, but Sam is already beginning—splash of that cold-hot-burning against Dean’s already over-heated stomach. Sam is talking this time, telling Dean how it looks—red and blue and gold smeared across his skin and clinging to his belly and chest as he heaves in breaths. And he keeps throwing ‘so beautiful’s in there, and ‘love you’s, and ‘so good for me’s, and if Dean’s chest gets twisted any tighter something’s going to snap.

Then Sam shifts his attention lower—wax dribbling across Dean’s inner thigh without warning—and Dean can’t help but cry out. It’s a wordless shout—mingled pain and pleasure, but nothing of protest—and Sam gives his hip a reassuring caress before following in the wake of his hand with the candle.

“Please,” Dean begs under his breath. “Sammy, please.”

“Shh,” Sam soothes. “Just let it happen, baby. Just let go. You hear me, Dean? Let go.”

Dean shakes his head—not going to happen, he doesn’t know how to do what Sam is asking, even if he wanted to—and then sucks in a deep, shuddering breath as his brother pours out a line of wax from his belly button down to the base of his cock. The cuffs pull at his wrists, unbearable, and Dean has to get out, he has to run, he has to get away. But he can’t see, and he can’t move, and Sam is splashing his other thigh now, making Dean twitch and pant.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on for—Sam covering him with heat and those motherfucking words while slowly stroking Dean’s cock for him—but eventually he loses enough of his hold on himself to start whimpering.

“Let go,” Sam urges, voice gentle. “Stop fighting and let go, you stubborn, stupid idiot.”

 _No,_ Dean thinks desperately, but something in the fond familiarity of those words—or maybe in the way Sam’s thumb is rubbing restlessly back and forth over his slit—cracks through the wall locking down the carefully controlled tension in his chest. It spills out in a flood, painful, and Dean's hands twist one last time against the cuffs as he thrusts up into the air.

Wax dribbles over his cock and onto his balls, searing, and that’s it: he’s coming with hoarse sobs and full-bodied shudders. It isn’t anything like the hundreds of other orgasms he’s had—none of them have been this intense, leaving him near-mindless in a whirl of pleasure and release. He can feel tears slipping past his eyelids and wetting his lashes beneath the blindfold and the open, loose sensation in his chest tears even wider.

“That’s it,” Sam whispers as Dean chokes out a low, hurt moan. “That’s it, good boy.”

He continues to stroke Dean’s cock through its twitches, aiming it so that Dean feels the splatter of semen on his inner thighs as he finishes coming. When he’s done, Sam releases his cock and starts to peel the wax away with one hand while rubbing along Dean’s skin with the other. Sam isn’t talking anymore, but the soft, soothing noises he keeps making are reaching even deeper than his earlier words, now that all of Dean’s shields and barriers have either been snapped open or lowered.

For the first time, the defenseless, open sensation isn’t accompanied by any emotion but relief.

Once Dean feels relatively wax-free, Sam’s huge hand cups the side of his face. “How are you doing?” Sam asks, thumbing his cheekbone. “You want me to take the blindfold off now?”

“No, sir.”

Sam’s fingers freeze.

For a long moment he’s quiet, and then, softly, he asks, “What was that?”

“No, sir,” Dean repeats. He feels a little silly saying it, but the sensation of release surges even stronger inside his chest. Oh God, it’s been so long since he’s been able to have this—since he’s been able to put the load down, even for a few minutes. Even just for sex.

Fucked if he’s picking it up again before he has to.

“Dean, I have to ask if you know what you’re offering.”

Dean casts his mind back over the last year and has to laugh. “You’re asking that now?” he says. “After you’ve fucked me in more positions than most porn stars get to try?”

“That’s different,” Sam protests. “That was just sex. This is—”

“I know. And yeah, I—in here. For this. I want this from you.” He sucks in a deep breath—doesn’t want to say the next part, but needs to. He knows himself too well not to warn Sam on this count. “But you gotta let me take point out there, Sammy.”

There’s a moment where Dean is worried Sam will fight him on this, and then, with humor light in his voice, Sam asks, “You want me to call you ‘sir’?”


End file.
